


gonna send the flood, gonna drown them out

by braille_upon_my_skin



Series: the world we're gonna make [7]
Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: M/M, Warning for a depiction of child abuse, and Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 16:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13767903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braille_upon_my_skin/pseuds/braille_upon_my_skin
Summary: "P.T., you arenotdirt," Phillip states emphatically, his eyes shining with candor."And, neither are you," Barnum breathes.





	gonna send the flood, gonna drown them out

 

\----

 

For all of his shortcomings and pitfalls- that his loved ones are ever so kind as to remind him of when he needs the reminder, whether it has been inquired after or not- Phineas Taylor Barnum prides himself on a great many things.

The man his father was. Both of the families he has created. His partners- two reserves of near endless patience and bastions of sense and practicality willing to pull him back to earth when he embodies the mythical Icarus and soars too close to the sun. Being an almost entirely self-made man. The show that he has the honor and privilege of sharing with the world. And, possessing an irrepressible eagerness to shake up conventions, pioneer ingenuity, and break people out of the walls they have surrounded themselves with.

Among these, he also prides himself on rising with the sun. Time is fleeting and with so much to do, he sees no sense in wasting any daylight. Sleep is a luxury the dreamers of the world can't afford if they ever wish to make those dreams a reality.

 Just before dawn breaks, Barnum is slipping out from beneath the covers on his bed, carefully, so as not to disturb Charity, and hurrying about the master bedroom to retrieve his clothing selections for the day ahead. As he is pulling his trousers on and fastening them about his waist, he hears the sweet, dulcet tones of his wife's voice calling to him.

"Phin?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"You must remember to thank Phillip for me."

"Of course." Barnum dips his head, a tight smile tugging at his mouth. Hearing Phillip's name brings to mind the unexpected, but admittedly overdue confrontation Barnum had with the younger man, three days prior. Of all people directly impacted by the fire that nearly cost Barnum and his families so much that could never be replaced, guarded and reserved Phillip Carlyle was the absolute _last_ he expected to see breaking down before his eyes.

Holding _himself_ accountable for Barnum's decision to dash back into the hellish inferno after him. 

As if Barnum ever _had_ any other option. Staying put would have meant allowing a part of himself to perish in the blaze.

He never expected to have his own words and encouragement used on him, to have Phillip _comforting_ him.

But, as he has been forced to accept, that's what a _partnership_ is.

These past three nights have been the first in so long where Barnum's sleep was not fraught with nightmares of Phillip burning alive as Barnum stumbled blindly, uselessly, unable to locate Phillip, to answer his cries, to _save_ him.

"Let's be alive together", Phillip had said, and with the blessed heat of his body, the thrumming of his pulse, the wondrous sound of every breath drawn in by and exhaled from that beautiful throat and the beautiful lungs housed within that breathtakingly perfect body, Phillip solidified and proclaimed his own existence and brought Phineas Barnum back to life.

Though, in hindsight, their _office_ might not have been the best place to execute that resurrection.

Barnum's heart aches with the knowledge that he is indebted to Phillip, _forever_. And, mere words of thanks will never be enough to express the depth and the breadth of his gratitude.

He tucks his shirt into his waistband and smoothes out his collar. He is sliding the knot of his tie up to rest beneath his collar and reaching for his waistcoat when Charity calls again, her eyes opening sleepily, "Oh, and, dear?"

"Hmm?"

"The left leg of your trousers is rolled up."

"Ah." A quick glance downward proves her observation correct. "Right. Thank you." With a humbled half-grin on his face, Barnum corrects the wayward leg of his trousers, and swiftly finishes getting dressed. He makes sure to place a kiss on Charity's forehead, and savors her soft, teasing smile as he rushes out the door.

 

.x.

 

Phillip has never been an early riser. Attempts to rouse him before ten a.m. have resulted in grumbling, groans, Phillip stubbornly rolling over and pulling his covers up to his ears, and some half-coherent threats laced with decidedly impolite and crass language, unbecoming for a man of Phillip's status, but terribly amusing to listen to.   

This is why, when the sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon beyond the docks as Barnum arrives at the quiet circus, unlocks the office door, and bustles in to the sight of Phillip slumped over their desk, his upper body clad in nothing but his dress shirt and suspenders, Barnum halts in his tracks.

The immediate, anxiety-fueled suppositions are silenced by the faint sound of Phillip's steady breathing.

Barnum just allows himself a moment of relief, then advances toward his partner. "Phillip," he says quietly, not wanting to startle the younger man, but more than mildly bewildered to find him _here_ instead of at his apartment, tucked up in bed. Especially with the biting chill in the air.

Due to his upbringing and previous comfortable lifestyle of labor-free opulence and luxury, Phillip is not built to endure situations that demand a lot of him physically, including low temperatures.

That bewilderment transfigures quickly into brow-creasing, stomach upsetting concern and perturbation when Barnum's foot collides with an object on the floor, causing it to clink against his shoe as it rolls away from him. His eyes follow the movement and land on an emptied bottle; champagne from the stash they had saved up for special occasions, such as birthdays, holidays, and the momentous day when the snobs and the critics behind the daily paper finally give the circus front page coverage with a positive headline.

Barnum has not seen Phillip down a single _drop_ of drink since his return from his ill-advised cross-country tour. In light of that, Phillip having knocked back an _entire bottle of it_ is…

"Phillip," Barnum says again, louder, aware, now, that something is very _not righ_ t, here. He grabs at the younger man's firm, well-muscled shoulder, and gives it a light shake. He can smell the liquor on him. "Phil, wake up."

This close to Phillip, the small trickle of drool leaking out of the corner of his mouth to collect in a puddle on the desktop is apparent, and Barnum grimaces, knowing precisely how self-conscious Phillip will be upon waking to discover that someone has seen him in this condition.

Also apparent is a blackening _bruise_ beside Phillip's left eye.

"Phillip," Barnum calls, his voice gruff under the strain of filtering his shock, worry, and rapidly spiking fury out of it. "Come on, wake up."

With a short whine and an inhalation through his nose, Phillip starts and jerks upright. He regards Barnum with bleary, half-open eyes, and wipes at his chin. "It's you," he mumbles. His tensed up body relaxes surreptitiously under Barnum's hand.

"Would you care to tell me what happened, last night?"

Phillip presses the heel of his hand into his eye, then runs the appendage through his messy hair that is sticking up on one side. "Nothing. 's not important."

" _Phillip_."

"Your voice is so loooouud," Phillip whines, his face scrunching up in visible pain. 

On any other day, Barnum knows that he would be teasing Phillip mercilessly, lining his face and the soft skin on his neck with kisses and faint bites, purposefully riling him.

Today, Phillip has a welt near his eye, and Barnum knows that it wasn't from tripping over a prop, or smacking into one of the platforms or beams on the stands. Phillip can be clumsy, but he isn't careless.

"Will you let me look at you?" Barnum asks, touching Phillip's face delicately, fingers just ghosting over his skin.

Phillip does not reply, but he doesn't resist. He watches Barnum, his gaze clouded, distant, as Barnum scopes out the extent of the damage.

The scar near Phillip's hairline remains as it was, the old wound unopened. There are no other abrasions anywhere on Phillip's face, but traces of sickly yellow mark the ridge of his cheekbone; an extension of the bruise by his eye.

"Is there anything else?"

"I was shoved," Phillip murmurs.

"Into what?"

Phillip goes silent. After a long pause, his Adam's apple bobs, and he says softly, his eyes falling to the desk, "It really isn't a big deal. It was my fault, to begin with."

Barnum almost bristles at those words, but manages to rein himself in. "Phillip, do you remember what you told me, the other day?"

The muscles in Phillip's strong, square-shaped jaw flex as he swallows.

With the same light, gentle touch, Barnum tilts Phillip's chin up and kneels to meet his eyes. The ocean of azure that he peers into, searching, seeking, is _haunted_ , _troubled_. There are the faintest of creases lining Phillip's forehead, and Barnum knows, firsthand, that Phillip carries more tension than any man his age ought to. And, while Barnum also knows that he, personally, can be a major contributor to the tension weighing on Phillip's shoulders and tending to manifest in the form of a migraine, he, likewise, is often the only method of _relieving_ that tension.

Since Phillip only ever seems to be truly freed of its weight when it has been coaxed out of him through very _physical_ means.

Surely something _else_ is the cause of Phillip's distress, and Barnum cannot rest until he has done something to ameliorate it.

"With all of that talk of partners and the significance of our partnership, don't tell me my influence has corrupted you and made you into a hypocrite. That just might break my heart."

Phillip's lips _just_ twitch into a smirk. "In your dreams, Barnum."

It's exactly what Barnum wanted to hear. He allows some of the fervor simmering within him to dial down. "If you don't want to tell me who injured you, that's fine." He lifts a hand to Phillip's head and brings his palm down on it, his fingers curling into tendrils of soft, sleep-mussed brunet hair. "I can guess at it."

There is a telling pulse in Phillip's temple, a contraction of his throat.

Barnum has a very _strong_ inkling that he already knows who was responsible, and if he ever sees the man, again, he would _love_ to land a punch square on his nose, right between his hatefully glaring eyes. "Have I met him?"

"What makes you so certain it was a man?"

"Well…" Barnum gives Phillip a half-hearted smirk. "While I have no doubts that a woman could easily take down a man of either of our sizes if she had to, I can't imagine any woman _wanting_ to inflict damage on such a striking visage."

Phillip's cheeks color a very enticing shade of pink.

"And, aside from our usual garden-variety of protestors, I've never seen a man express any particular desire to harm you, either." His hand travels down, knuckles stroking the smooth, close-cropped hair of Phillip's sideburns. His voice adopts a dangerous lilt. "With the exception of one. One very _specific_ man who, as I recall, seemed quite committed to making you feel like a worthless, reprehensible, 'blemish on the legacy of your family'."

Phillip's jaw tightens, quivering. "P.T., you-- "

"Your father is a hate-filled bastard of a man," Barnum growls, his fury boiling over all at once. He moves away from Phillip, wanting to spare him close contact with the most explosive aspects of it.  "To talk to your own child like that, to _strike_ him, simply because he dares to be different. No, to strike him _at all_ …" He is pacing around the office, his feet taking him in an aimless, enraged left to right circuit as he seethes, "My father never hit me, and I'll be _damned_ before I _ever_ raise a hand to Caroline or Helen."   

"Phineas," Phillip murmurs. He tracks Barnum's movements with widening eyes.

"A man should never have the _opportunity_ to know the pride and the joys of fatherhood if he ever so much as _considers-_ -"

" _Phin_."

Barnum halts, turning to Phillip at the sound of his name and the scraping of the chair as its legs drag across the floor.

Phillip is on his feet, staggering, as he says, "I told you it isn't worth it. My parents are nothing more than a vestige of my former life. One that I intend to cut all ties with." He wobbles, holding his head as he seeks out something to steady himself, and Barnum is at his side in an instant, bracing him against his chest and wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"Then, how did you… ?" He asks, though he dreads the answer. He knows how difficult it is to sever the bond between parent and child, even if the parent is deadweight dragging their child down, keeping their child from living the life they desire, maintaining a _stranglehold_ on their child well into adulthood.

Charity's father being a prime example.

"I went back to my parents' house to retrieve books from my library. They were part of a collection from my childhood… " Phillip's voice drops, wavering with shame and regret. "They hold _sentimental_ value, so I deemed them irreplaceable." A twisted, malformed version of a smile, bitter and sardonic, plays across his face. "My run-in with my father was not planned, but I suppose that's what I get for thinking I could stroll casually into his home after disowning him."

Barnum's heart twists as well, bleeding with piercing sadness. "A parent never, ever has any business laying a hand on their child. No matter how old that child gets, and even if that child rightfully disavows them," he says quietly and seriously. 

Phillip looks up at him, his expression unreadable, then buries his face in Barnum's neck as his body is wracked with shivers.

Hugging Phillip tighter to his chest, Barnum murmurs, "Let's get you warmed up."

 

.x.

 

Barnum drapes his own coat around Phillip's shoulders.

Anne Wheeler is kind enough to give Phillip a blanket from her caravan, and Lettie prepares Phillip a cup of tea that she informs Barnum in a conspiratorial whisper while Phillip's attention is on Anne, contains, "just a _teeny_ tiny bit of whiskey. To help warm him up".

Phillip and Barnum extend the both of them verbal and silent thanks, a nod from Phillip, and Barnum flashing the women a grateful smile.

Barnum rubs diligently at the space between Phillip's neck and shoulders, minding the ugly bruise on the first knob of Phillip's spine peeping out from Phillip's shirt collar, as the four of them crowd into Lettie's exquisitely decorated, homey feeling, and most pertinently, _warm_ caravan.

Phillip inclines his neck to give Barnum a better angle on it, a sated hum that only Barnum can discern in his throat, and takes small, delicate sips of Lettie's special tea.

"Honey, you know you could have come to any of us," Lettie says. "No one would have left you to sleep in the office."

"I didn't think it was worth bothering any of you about," Phillip says softly.

"Well, we're _more_ bothered by the fact that you didn't tell anyone you were going back to your _parents'_ house." Anne's voice shakes just audibly, her eyes gleaming in a manner that suggests she knows all too well what Phillip's parents are like.

Barnum concurs. _More than_ concurs. He squeezes lightly at the base of Phillip's neck and says, "You could have told _me_. I would have gone with you. I could have at least stopped your father from putting his hands on you."

Phillip looks up at him, his eyes still glassy; with exhaustion, and, likely, one wicked hell of a hangover. "You were with Charity, and I had ringmaster duty."

Those damn walls that Barnum has been chipping away at, eroding, sanding down, demolishing brick by brick, are being erected, again. He can feel it. And, he won't stand for it.

"So, what? I get to unload all of my worries onto you while you repress everything under bottles of champagne and let yourself get kicked around and treated _like dirt_? Because I dragged you into this world?"

"It was a _choice_ ," Phillip insists. Perhaps it was Barnum's tone, the savagery, distaste, and pulses of fear and _pain_ that accompanied his words, but Phillip looks alert for the first time. _Stunned_.

Something passes between the two of them- a tacit understanding that although they are, by all appearances, entirely _normal_ , they are every bit the _freaks_ , the _outcasts_ , the _misfits_ , _pariahs_ , and the social _lepers_ that the rest of their company, their _family,_ are.

P.T. Barnum; the poor tailor's boy who clawed and scraped his way up from the very bottom after years of living on the streets and fighting tooth and nail to stay alive, and made a name for himself by encouraging society's cast outs and aberrations, people who never felt as though they belonged due to a physical abnormality, or even something as minor as the color of their skin, to come out of the shadows and into the light.

And, Phillip Carlyle; the disgraced playwright with a concerning liquor dependency who left behind his world of inheritance, claim, and invitations to gatherings of the highest standing, to enter _P.T. Barnum's_ , and endure all of the scorn and ridicule that came packaged as a consequence of that decision.

Both of them criminals and degenerates in the eyes of the world outside of the few good people they keep company with. The accepting, welcoming, and protective sphere of the circus.

Both of them fated to be viewed as deviants and sick, depraved _perverts_ for appreciating the male form and being nigh unable to control their insatiable, deep-seated, and overflowing desire for one another.

Being the heads of a troupe of oddities is the most fitting role either of them could have been casted to play.

"P.T.," Phillip says, holding Barnum's gaze, his eyes searching, attempting to map out the landscape of Barnum's mind, Barnum is sure.

Barnum feels his heartbeat in the hollow of his throat under that appraising stare that seems to see right through him.

"You are _not_ dirt," Phillip states emphatically, his eyes shining with candor.

He has both revealed an old wound, long scabbed over, but still sensitive to the touch, _and_ applied a layer of soothing balm to it.   

"And, neither are you," Barnum breathes. He caresses the fine hairs on the back of Phillip's neck and when Phillip leans into the touch, Barnum's throat tightens with the powerful wave of emotion crashing over him. He cannot pinpoint the exact moment his desires metamorphosed from wanting to _own_ Phillip and have all of his abilities and connections at his disposal, to wanting to _protect_ him and doing everything in his power to ensure his happiness and safety.

But, he regrets no part of that that transmutation. 

"Fuck 'em," Lettie says suddenly.

Barnum turns to her and finds her eyes misting, welling with tears.

"Fuck every single one of them who ever treated us like we have no place, like we're _dirt_. Fuck 'em all."

Anne's jaw tightens. She holds her head high as her mouth straightens into a resolute line, and nods in agreement.

"We never needed their approval, anyway," Barnum promises them and the image of a much leaner, hungrier, smaller, and beaten down version of himself who wanted nothing more than to prove his own worth to Charity's father, the world around him, and to himself. 

Phillip presses a kiss to the knuckles of Barnum's right hand where it rests on his shoulder, and that once insignificant little boy who had to steal food for any chance of eating, that day, who couldn't even afford a change of clothes as his growing limbs surpassed the material of the one shirt and pair of trousers he had to his name, smiles.

 

.x.

 

"Why our office, Phillip?" Barnum asks, later, as the circus is coming to life around them, the tent filled the rush and buzz of fellow performers setting things up for the show scheduled for this evening.

The sound of daggers flying whizzes through the air, and Barnum does his best not to flinch at the glimpse of fire in the corner of his eye, noting Phillip tensing beside him as a metal hoop for an act featuring the lions is encircled by flames.

"I wanted to be somewhere that reminded me of you," Phillip answers in a low voice. His eyes are averted, and his cheeks are steadily turning that lovely shade of pink. "I…" He clears his throat, the volume of his voice dropping even lower. "I even considered putting on your coat."

Barnum's heartbeat stutters for just a sliver of a moment. "My coat, huh?"

"Your ringmaster's coat," Phillip clarifies.

Barnum feels his chest swell, then, he smirks.

Phillip goes on, words rushing out in an obvious- and failing- attempt to recover some measure of poise, "But, I thought that would- I mean, i-it might have been just a bit too… " He raises his eyes to meet Barnum's, and the chagrin stealing into his features as he trails off is instantaneous. "Stop that."

"Stop what?" Barnum asks, feigning innocence.

"Phineas, you're making _that face_ , again."

"And, what face is that?"

Phillip _just_ suppresses a groan and lifts a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "I already feel the migraine setting in."

Barnum's smirk widens. He chuckles, shifting in closer to Phillip, who makes no effort to move away, despite his display of evident disapproval, and lowers his voice to a deep husk as he informs his partner, "I merely felt you should know that you can wear my coat whenever you wish, _darling_. I've never minded having my scent _all over you_."

Phillip shivers in a deeply satisfying manner that most _definitely_ _isn't_ from the cold. His long black eyelashes veil his eyes, a muscle in his jaw working as he swallows hard, subconsciously leaning toward Barnum. The distance between their bodies has lessened to the point that all one of them would have to do is reach out, and--

"Barnum," W.D. Wheeler calls from up among the rafters.

Phillip startles and the blush on his face intensifies. His circumstantial modesty and reservation are immensely endearing, making getting him to lower his guard, leave his cage, and scale his walls to bound joyously over them and into the arms of freedom, all the more _rewarding_.

"Are you and Pretty Boy planning to join us for rehearsals, or is there something else you would rather be doing?"

"Or, some _one_ else," Charles adds with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows as he passes the pair of ringmasters.

Barnum laughs, and with a dismissive sweeping motion of his hand, tells them genially, "All right, bugger off, all of you."

The rest of the troupe gathered in the tent share amused looks and let out various shades of laughter as they disperse to partake in their respective pre-show rituals and preparations.

Barnum makes to meet up with O'Malley, but feels a strong hand close around his forearm, holding him in place.

Never mind that he could easily break that hold. 

"Phin," Phillip's rich, velvety baritone pleads.

Barnum turns to face him and is met with a dip of Phillip's head and a raise of his distinct eyebrows that he could never deny, in the past. It seems that will not be changing any time soon.

He makes a show of sighing and pretending that Phillip is asking _so much_ of him, though they both know otherwise.

" _Phin~eas_ ," Phillip cajoles, his eyes, the most brilliant, magnificent blue eyes that Phineas Barnum has ever seen, shining tantalizingly.

With a smile, Barnum whirls around and seizes the sleeves of his own coat that Phillip is bundled up in, and draws the younger, smaller man, up into a lingering kiss.

Phillip lets out a satisfied hum that vibrates across their joined mouths. "That's how you should be greeting me _every_ morning," he remarks when they break off.

Barnum brushes his fingers through Phillip's hair and tells him affectionately, "Make sure you get a bath. I can smell the champagne on your skin."

"Will you be joining me?" Phillip runs his fingers along the buttons on Barnum's waistcoat.

Barnum feels a hot coil tightening in the pit of his stomach. "You're tempting me, Mr. Carlyle," he says tightly, his insides working to cling to some vestige of self-control.

"I don't want to sit in a cold tub _alone_." Phillip has learned to adopt just the _right_ tone to his voice; an alluring deep pitch that lightens to a pleading lilt. Every time, it winds the heated coil tight and pulls Barnum into him like a marionette yanked by its strings.

Phillip is, most certainly, the _pulse_ \- of this circus, of this family, and of Barnum's own heart. A circus king in his own right, whose command and wiles are understated, but undeniable.

As Phillip tugs at the front of Barnum's waistcoat, the tip of his nose grazing Barnum's throat, Barnum's eyes flutter closed. He relishes the attempt at persuasion, wonders just how long he _should_ \- how long he _can_ \- hold out for before he ultimately gives in. A split-second mental flash of Phillip's eyes widening during his earlier rampage freezes him. "Phillip."

"Mm?"

"I sincerely apologize if I frightened you, earlier. Your father… "

"He raised his voice a lot when I was growing up," Phillip admits quietly. His eyes fix on Barnum's collarbone under the tie his fingers are currently working to unknot. "I never quite know how to respond when someone yells."

P.T. Barnum is a lot of things, many of them unpleasant, but he is, by no means, a _violent_ man, and has _never_ set out to breed fear in the hearts of others. Least of all someone he considers _family_. His throat constricting, a painful lump rising at the back of it and ensnaring his heart in a vise, Barnum assures Phillip, "I will be mindful of that, in the future."

" _No_."

The firmness of the dissension catches Barnum off-guard.

Phillip glances up, still holding on to Barnum's tie as he stares unguardedly into his eyes. "You don't need to tone yourself down for me. You and I both know you are not my father. So… keep being loud, brazen, and shameless. _Please_. That's who you are. And, I… "

Phillip doesn't finish that statement, but he doesn't need to. Barnum hears the words that Phillip never gives a voice to. The pauses between his speech that speak _volumes_.

He feathers a light kiss between Phillip's eyes, one of gratitude, of _love_ , and promises, "I'll join you after rehearsals and make sure that both of us get clean." Wash away every insult, every revolted stare. He rests his mouth against Phillip's brow bone, and remembers his earlier promise to Charity, murmuring, "Charity sends her love and gratitude, by the way."

"That's very kind of her, but… " Phillip's brows furrow. "What for?"

Barnum cradles Phillip's bruised cheek, his thumb tenderly caressing the ridge of it, and declares, "For bringing me back and reminding me who I am."

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Once more, I want to thank every single one of you who has bookmarked, left a comment, or gave kudos to my stories. You are all lovely people, and receiving these notifications never fails to brighten my day.


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